Crimson and Cerulean
by Neurotic Cat Goddess
Summary: What if House had done more than OD in Merry Little Christmas? Dark, angsty. AU. Not a oneshot anymore.
1. Crimson

Disclaimer: I don't own House; FOX does. I make no profit from this.

Summary: What if House had done more than OD on Christmas Eve

"I just wanted to say Merry Christmas," he managed, and hung up the phone before _goodbye_ could force its way out, or worse, _I love you_.

He didn't wonder what his parents would think when they got home (if they hadn't heard by then) and heard the message. Would they listen to it again and again? More likely they would delete it without thinking.

He grabbed the glass, idly studying the patterns of refracted light, and downed the remaining contents. Then he dropped it on the floor, and watched as it shattered into tiny pieces.

A shaking hand reached out, grabbed the pills. He could hear them rattling around inside, but when he looked down into the orange bottle, he frowned. There were only six left- or was it four? He wasn't sure. They were moving so fast.

This didn't matter, anyway. He downed all four (six?) of the pills, not bothering to wash them down with anything. He was out of scotch.

For some reason, the knife was playing tricks on him. It seemed to curve and bend as he picked it up. It shone with a kaleidoscope of colors, and he dropped is as if he'd been burned.

How strange, that the knife was colored. It seemed to be pulling the color through the air out of everything else in the room. Was that why the room was spinning? Because it was losing its color? This made no sense to House, even in his drugged state. He could not shake the feeling that he was missing something, that something was wrong. His brow furrowed as he tried to stay above the tide rushing through his skull.

There was something- he was forgetting something. His lazy smile faded as he tried to concentrate through the hazy blur. Then another swell of contentment hit him, and everything melted away.

He did not know how long he lay there, dizzy, drunk, falling from fantasy to nightmare and back again, a thousand times over.

He was sure of only one thing. The pain would return.

Oh, it was gone now, swept away by the same tide that obliterated his thoughts, his feelings, everything he was. Who was he, then? He tried not to bother himself with difficult questions.

He couldn't remember what the pain felt like, or what anything, beyond the ecstasy of being _elsewhere_, felt like. At this point, he wasn't sure of anything.

Maybe the pain was just a dream, too?

Even as he thought that, he felt his leg twinge. Just a tiny pain, barely noticeable. If he had been thinking clearly he would have recognized it as psychosomatic. He wasn't thinking clearly, though.

The pain would come back. That was inevitable. No matter what he did, no matter how far he fled into himself, the pain always returned. For now, though, it was gone. He didn't feel any pain in his leg, probably because he had forgotten he had a leg. He had forgotten everything, and it was nice.

He never wanted this to end. Just the thought of it, of the pain, of having to leave this blissful dream, was enough to bring some clarity to his mind.

He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't.

He knew, in that moment, with absolute certainty, that there was nothing left for him there, in that hard-edged, pain-filled world.

He had suffered. He had survived. But this was the end of the line.

Somehow he managed to sit up. A blanket of light seemed to cover everything, and then he could see nothing at all as black spots swarmed across his vision and cxrawled into his mind.

He gripped the edge of the table, hard, swaying and shaking as his vision slowly cleared.

He opened his eyes (when had he closed them? HE could not remember) and everything was strangely lit, flickering and dancing, like the walls and furniture were made of fire. Then everything coalesced into one instant, one point of light, and he looked.

There, on the table was the knife (how did it get there? Had he put it there? He must have, but memory escaped him). The knife was colorless now, except for the moments when it seemed red. No. The red would come later.

It was beautiful. He stared at the knife, as strange bits of light swam in front of his eyes and he felt himself sinking slowly into what seemed like molasses, and it took all his strength just to life his hand.

When he finally curled his fingers, slowly, one by one, around the knife, it felt cold in his grasp.

This more than anything reminded his of why he had no choice, and he felt a an echo of a memory tugging at him.

He was missing something. Something was wrong.

The tide pushed that thought from his mind like a cobweb, and the knife traveled toward his arm, dragging his hand along. When he finally, almost tentatively, brushed the blade across his wrist (it slipped. I didn't mean it) and he tilted his head and wondered at the waterfall of red that slowly seeped out, and-

The shrill ring of the phone pushed through the churning emptiness in his mind, and a part of him knew this was not the first time the phone had rung tonight, but then the roaring in his ears drowned out the sound, and if he could not hear it, it was not there. So simple. So very simple.

The cutting was supposed to make him happy, somehow (he had forgotten how) but he felt nothing.

There was nothing left of him anymore. No thoughts, no emotions, only one simple desire. _I will not let the pain return_. He ha d lived without it, once. He had made a place for himself in the sharp-edged, brightly lit world that everyone else inhabited with such ease.

No more. The pain would not return because he would not let it, and there was only one way to be sure of that.

The ringing phone threw out a line to him in the shifting sea of nothingness, and the part of him that kept trying to tell him (you're forgetting something, softly taunting) grabbed onto it, but it was far to fragile to hold the pain at bay.

The line snapped, and he knew. There was nothing left for him anymore, in the world of reason and thought and pain.

He touched the tip of the knife against what looked like rice paper, with something under it trying to get out, and he slowly opened his vein with all the precision of a surgeon, and watched as the sea flowed out of him, and onto the floor.

The color was back in the air again, but it seemed to be converging on one point, the widening ocean that was now the wrong color for an ocean.

He opened his mouth to admonish someone for using the wrong crayon, because weren't oceans supposed to be blue? Or was it green, he wasn't sure. This, this was a red that looked almost purple in the fading light, but he knew, when the sun rose, it would be a bright cherry red (would there be paramedics? Cops? No one?" He liked the last choice best. To simply remain here, untouched, unnoticed.

At rest.

Clearly someone had trouble coloring between the lines, because the red was spreading now, until everything around him was red, and then it all started to get dark, darker and darker as coat after coat of black paint was layered on and he could swear he heard his mother playing Beethoven.

He knew, with a certainty that had evaded him until then, that he was dying.

Everything was dark now, but the point of the knife seemed to be glowing, and he was drawn to it, studying the strange pinpoint of light as the world went dark, and everything seemed to be fading away,

Breathing seemed like such a chore now, and he

tried to remember

he knew he had to-

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Reviews greatly appreciated.


	2. Iridescence

Chapter Title: Iridescence

Disclaimer: I don't own House or anything related to it; they are owned by FOX.

AN: Ok, so this was supposed to be oneshot but it didn't work out that way. I had no choice, my muse forced me to write. She's funny that way. I can never write new chapters for the stories that are supposed to be chapter fics, yet I end up writing more chapters for a fic that should be a oneshot. Oops. Well, anyway, some reviewers asked me to continue, so just consider this a Christmas present. Don't get used to it. Enjoy! Also, thank you to all the nice, kind, wonderful people who reviewed. Everyone else is a Grinch.

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Looking back, he would never remember what had compelled him to go there that night. There had been no startling moment of realization, no sudden chill that made him grab his keys and race out the door, hoping he wouldn't be too late.

He hadn't _known _in that way he'd heard so many people describe. There was no premonition, no knot of fear in the pit of his stomach. He could just as easily have gone home and gotten the sleep he so desperately needed, unaware his best friend was dying.

Yet something had tugged at the back of his mind, a quiet worry that he'd almost ignored. Something had made him take the long way home, just so he could make a quick stop. It had seemed natural, necessary. There was always a chance he would be needed.

On a dark night, weeks later, he would wonder if that's what he'd wanted, if a part of him had hoped he would be needed. Was that what he'd become, to pray his friend would fall and break just so that he could be there to pick up the pieces?

He hadn't speeded trying to get there; he'd even obeyed the stop signs. His hands hadn't been white or shaking as he gripped the steering wheel, and he hadn't been filled with overwhelming dread. He'd never once thought, _what if I'm too late?_ Looking back, that was the worst part. How could he not have known?

He remembered that it was a cold night. He'd forgotten to bring a warm coat, so he'd hoped to cut his visit short and get home as soon as he could.

There were no clouds, and the stars were bright and clear. He could see his breath in front of his face when he parked his car and got out. It was so cold that he considered just getting back in his car and going home, House be damned.

In the end, guilt won out, and his feet seemed to carry him of their own accord up the steps of House's apartment building. He wrapped his arms around himself in a futile attempt to get warm, finally giving up and opening the door.

He made his way up the stairs slowly, reluctant footfalls echoing softly as he climbed. It was dark, but he never thought to turn on the light. Instead he let his eyes slowly adjust to the inky blackness, until he could see the world in muted shades of grey.

He knocked on the door to House's apartment, and when no one answered he gave in and used his key. He probably wasn't even home. Wilson was sure he was in some bar somewhere, trying to drown his pain.

It wasn't until he opened the door that he knew something was wrong. It hit him like a punch to the gut.

An empty bottle of scotch.

Glass shards all over the floor, and they cut through his new shoes as he ran across the room, to where House was lying on the floor, in a pool of vomit and-

blood.

It was then that Wilson _knew_, then that the cold certainty settled in his heart, and for a moment he couldn't breathe, and later, he would swear his heart had stopped.

_No. No, this can't be happening._

Wilson dropped to his knees, his heart pounding now, deafening him. Bits of glass cut his legs, and he knew this was no nightmare. Later, his clothes would be stained with blood and he would realize he didn't know if it was House's or his own.

He pulled House's head into his lap, shaking with quiet desperation. He ran his fingers through House's hair, leaving red streaks behind. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he slid two fingers onto House's neck and felt for a pulse.

He didn't know how long he waited; it seemed like an eternity but he knew it must have been only a few seconds. He thought at first it was just wishful thinking, but then he was sure. House's pulse was weak and erratic, but it was there.

Suddenly Wilson could breathe again. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers leaving red prints on the shiny surface. He held the phone with one hand even as he attempted to stop the slow flow of blood from House's wrists. He was covered in blood now, and a part of his brain tried to calculate how much blood his friend had lost, and how much more blood he could afford to lose.

When the operator told him it might take ten minutes for the ambulance to arrive, he swore and threw the phone across the room, not bothering to hit the end button. Then all his medical knowledge flew out of his head and he fumbled to make a tourniquet.

He held House's wrists in his hands, and House was so pale now, and Wilson couldn't see if he was breathing, but blood was still oozing out of the two gashes on his wrists, and that meant his heart was still beating.

Wilson didn't know how long he sat there, trying to keep House's wrists above his heart and put pressure on the wounds and this was so much easier when it was hypothetical. When it was just a first aid class he'd taken years ago.

How could anything have prepared him for this, for the sight of his best friend lying in a pool of his own blood, blood that was inexorably being pumped out of House's body, and there was so much blood. Wilson didn't think House could lose this much blood and live, but it was hard to tell. The blood was everywhere, and the stinging in Wilson's legs where he'd gotten cut on the glass told him not all of it was House's.

One of House's hands started to slip from his grip, and he struggled, to keep holding it, because he had to keep the pressure on, he had to stop the bleeding, or slow it, at the very least, just buy time until the ambulance showed up…

Wilson didn't know how long he sat there, clutching House with hands that were slippery with blood, now moving, praying to a God he'd stopped believing in a long time ago. It seemed like an eternity to him, like time had chosen to stand still and he would be trapped there forever.

Finally, finally, after what must have been only a few minutes, he heard the distant cry of a siren. Then the paramedics rushed into the room, and they pulled Wilson away from House, and he wouldn't remember much of that.

He wouldn't remember that he held so tightly to House that the paramedics were reminded of the vice-like grip of the dead, or that his empty eyes just reinforced that comparison. He wouldn't remember the pretty female paramedic that wraps a blanket around him and tells him he's in shock, or that she was a little scared of the way he couldn't meet her eyes.

He wouldn't remember that he was covered in so much blood that the paramedic checked to make sure he wasn't seriously hurt, too. They loaded him onto the ambulance with House and they tried to talk to him, get him to snap out of.

The whole time, he never took his eyes off House's face.

He wouldn't remember the way they bustled around House and frantically tried to stabilize him, the way they were just as concerned about his own rapid pulse and shallow breathing.

The ambulance ride, arriving at Princeton-Plainsboro, doctors in the ER yelling and running about, all this will be a blank in his memory. When they finally realized one of the glass shards had nicked his femoral artery, he would be almost catatonic. Still, he was in much better shape than House.

The combination of drugs, alcohol, and blood loss, left untreated, was enough to kill House ten times over. House, however, had the advantage of a veritable army of doctors and nurses fighting to keep him alive.

Wilson wouldn't remember being wheeled in on a gurney, or that House was next to him. He won't know how many times House flat-lined, or how many times he was revived.

Worst of all, he wouldn't know whether those two numbers were the same.

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Reviews are greatly appreciated. Have a nice day!


	3. Paint it Gray

It wasn't raining. The sky was clear, and anyone who took the time to look up would have seen fading stars against a rapidly lightening sky.

It was still early. The streets were deserted, the shops closed. Only the 24-hour convenience store had its lights on. Alarm clocks hadn't begun to go off yet. The city was quiet, its residents fast asleep.

Inside the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, Dr. James Wilson was just beginning to wake up. The paramedics had checked him over, stuck a butterfly bandage on the worst of his wounds, and declared him in good enough health to be discharged.

He had been given a mild sedative, so he wouldn't go running off and dislodge the bandage, but it had hardly been needed. He would have fallen asleep immediately anyway. He had been exhausted.

The first thing he noticed was that his back hurt. The bed was hard, and he could feel a spring digging into his back. There was a crick in his neck.

His nose was immediately assaulted by the familiar odor of disinfectant. After a moment, he also noticed the scent of flowers and a stale, musky odor that he recognized but could not identify.

He was clearly in the hospital, which was not unusual. He often spent the night, especially when he was going through a divorce, or he'd been kept at work until late at night and he was too tired to drive home.

He slowly cracked his eyes open. The room was dark, but he could see a sliver of harsh light had crept under the door.

It was only when he propped himself up on his elbows and surveyed the room that he realized he was in a patient room. Further investigation revealed a hospital gown, an ID bracelet, and a small butterfly bandage on his thigh, along with several small cuts.

Wilson frowned, his brow creasing with concentration. What exactly had happened last night?

He pushed himself out of bed and looked around the room. Upon discreetly peeking around the curtain in the middle of the room, he determined the other patient in the room was a young man with a broken leg.

A digital clock told him in glaring red numbers that it was exactly 4:12 in the morning. A part of him remembered that it was Christmas Day, a day that held some significance for him despite his Jewish faith.

Wilson frowned. What was he doing in a hospital bed at four AM on Christmas Day?

He located his cloths, hastily folded and tossed onto the single chair. He flipped a light on and inspected then, his mouth opening with shock as he saw they were covered in blood.

It couldn't all be his. He would be in worse shape if he had lost that much blood, although, judging by the bandage on his leg and the corresponding cut in his pants, at least some of it was his.

He massaged his temples, and carefully reconstructed the events of the previous night.

The details were hazy at first. He had finished up some paperwork, packed up his things, gotten in his car. What had happened then? Had there been a car accident?

He didn't think so. He changed into the bloody clothes. He'd find a coat to throw over them as soon as he could, but blood wasn't all that unusual in a hospital. It was odd that they'd left them there- hospital policy was to dispose of contaminated clothes, but he guessed whatever nurse had been attending to him had been too busy to care.

Whatever the reason, he was glad to be out of the flimsy hospital gown, and he pondered the mysterious bloodstains. Had he gone straight home?

No. He'd gone to House's, hadn't he? He'd stopped by (just to make sure House was all right).

It was Christmas, after all, and House was all alone with his pills.

What had happened next?

It hit him like a punch to the gut. Finding House in a pool of his own blood, rushing to him, praying he'd arrived in time.

He must have called 911, but he didn't remember. The last thing he remembered was the blood. There had been so much blood.

House.

Where was House?

He flung open the door of his room, not caring that he probably looked like a serial killer in his bloodstained clothes.

He passed a few nurses in the hall, but they were too wrapped up in their own crises to pay much attention to him.

He ducked in a closet and grabbed a spare lab coat, then stopped at the nurses' station, hoping he looked presentable.

Had he gotten there in time? He refused to even consider the possibility that he hadn't, though it was far easier to believe that this was his fault.

The staff of the nurses' station was a large, frizzy-haired woman who wore strong, cheap perfume. She'd clearly given up on taming her dark, curly hair a long time ago, and now kept it under control with a thick white headband. A roll of fat was sandwiched between a skimpy shirt that was several sizes too small and cheap jeans. She was pushing sixty, and the very least, and tried to hide it with far too much foundation. That, combined with her cheap lipstick and hastily applied eyeliner, made her a truly nauseating sight.

Wilson gave her his most charming smile. "Excuse me, ma'am, but could you tell me if Gregory is a patient here?" He held his breath and crossed all of his fingers. _Please say yes. Please say yes._

He didn't know what he would do if House was gone. He didn't have anyone else.

By some miracle she seemed not to recognize the name. She didn't flinch, or crack a joke about the notorious doctor.

Instead, she turned to her computer, and typed away at it for a couple moments. "He certainly is. Checked in last night."

When she wasn't more forthcoming, Wilson added, still in the most polite tone of voice he could manage, "Which room is he in, please?"

"Oh," the woman, whose nametag identified her as Lizzy. Wilson mentally dubbed her Frizzy Lizzy. "He's in ICU," she said, and Wilson swallowed hard. She gave him the room number, and he thanked her and got out of there.

Three elevators, two flights of stairs, and countless corridors later, Wilson made it to House's room.

He tried to get in, but a small nurse told him in no uncertain terms that no visitors were allowed. After several minutes of futile argument, he gave in.

"Is he going to be all right?" The question was infinitely easier to ask than the one he heard every day, _is he going to die_, but the fear, the desperation, they were the same.

The nurse softened slightly. "He's in critical condition, but he's stable."

That was more than Wilson had hoped for, and slowly made his way to the waiting area, where he paid no attention to everyone else around him, all bearing identical expressions of worry and pain.

_This is my fault._ He wasn't sure exactly of the logic that brought him to this conclusion, but he knew it was true. His fault. His fault for going to Tritter, for betraying his friend, for not helping House.

He had only caught a glimpse of House through the half-open door, but he knew. House was in bad shape. It was a miracle he had even survived.

_What would I do without him?_ The thought was chilling, and strangely it wasn't one he'd ever considered.

House was a constant.

He was always there, abrasive, crude, brilliant. He lent his couch whenever Wilson was temporarily homeless; he was always ready to offer a beer, if not a shoulder to cry on. He could always count on House to do something foolish, unethical, or just plain illegal, and yet always managed to save lives.

He tried to imagine living without House, getting up without wondering how he was, getting dressed without hearing House's voice in his head insulting his choice of clothes.

He tried to imagine going to work and not seeing House in the hallways, not eating lunch with him, and felt sick.

Everyone leaves. Sooner or later, everyone you love will leave. Wilson knew this better than anyone. But House- House was supposed to be different.

Wilson shut his eyes tightly and jammed his hands over his mouth to keep from crying, or yelling.

People were watching. He had to keep it together. Slowly he drew in a deep breath, let it out, breathed in again. He could fall apart later, when no one was watching.

Right now, he would look calm, in control. Wasn't he supposed to be the pillar of strength? His world was falling apart, he realized, and he was worried about appearances. His hands curled into fists and he shivered, gasping for breath. He was drowning.

He was drowning, and couldn't summon the will to fight for air. Was this how House had felt? Like everyone had abandoned him? It was true, wasn't it?

He had betrayed House, so House had betrayed him. It had an almost poetic quality to it, but Wilson couldn't find any poetics in the pain he felt. He couldn't go on without House. It was that simple.

That led to the inevitable question of _why? _ Was it because he'd grown so used to having House there, almost like a crutch (a cane the thought sprang to his mind and he almost cried) and now he'd forgotten how to live without him? But now, now he couldn't muster the strength to move form his chair, and he felt sick and dizzy and hopeless at the thought of losing his best friend (his only friend he thought the only one who counted) and he closed his eyes and wished he could sleep.

He had caused this.

"Greg," he whispered, softly, brokenly, and a nearby woman who looked about eighty shot him an odd look, then took in his appearance and quickly looked away.

Who was he kidding? How could he convince the world he was okay, when he couldn't even convince himself?


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